


just always be waiting for me

by glitteryrage



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Daddy Issues, M/M, We'll see what happens - Freeform, ex problems, lots of it oops, not as much harry as the rest of the boys :(, probably a lot of fluff too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-03-10 17:38:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3298475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteryrage/pseuds/glitteryrage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end is near. Summer is days away, and come fall, Zayn'll be out of this godforsaken, rundown neighborhood for good. No more bussing tables, no more third-wheeling, no more sharing his cigarettes with the homeless every single time he whips a pack out. No more pretending he's got a reason to miss the stuffy houses, the boarded up shops, and the dirty alleys.</p><p>Well. That is, until he really <i>does</i> have a reason. A Converse-clad, blue eyed, bruised reason.</p><p>Shit.</p><p>(Or, Louis has bruises that come and go nearly as fast as he does, and Zayn is reaching for a boy who isn't all there.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Alrighty. A brand new adventure!
> 
> This is written in first person because of reasons, but the rest will be in third. This takes place...a month or two before the rest? A prologue. Yipee.
> 
> I was listening to We Are Broken by Paramore when I wrote this, so if you wanna turn that on...cool~
> 
> Let's see where this takes us!

I stand in the storm for far longer than I need to. His window, his room, his arms--they're just feet away, tiny, baby steps. Warm, dry, waiting. I stand in the storm, in the chaos, and look towards the calm, welcoming shelter for longer than I should, because I fit in better outside. Under the dark, lightning streaked sky.

I stand in the storm until I stop tasting blood when I flick my tongue over my lips.

I stand in the storm until my hair is heavy, plastered onto my face, rivers dripping from the thick clumps. The rain runs races with tears down my cheeks; soon, they'll knock into each other, blend together, and he won't be able to tell I'm crying.

I stand in the storm until my skin is cold and I can't feel anything anymore. Not a single, god damn thing. Numb.

And then I take the baby steps towards shelter, towards home. I push the window open, slowly, so it doesn't make too much noise, and then haul myself into the dim room. 

I shut the window firmly, leaving the storm outside. I lock it, shut the blinds. Close my eyes.

_Come on, let it go, leave it outside, don't bring it here, stop fucking shaking, stop fucking crying, don't bring it here._

I hear his mattress creak and hold my breath, keeping my eyes shut tight. I still hear the storm loud in my head, still feel it on my skin, pelting down, slicing icy tears in my skin. I feel it all over me, in the weight of my clothes, in the trails down my face that I don't think are doing much to disguise the tears. Chaos.

His hands find my waist (gently, god, he's always so gentle) and he's close enough that I can feel him through my clothes, and everything gets quieter so suddenly my ears ring. The rain beating down on the window, trying to find its way in, is softer. The wind, which was pushing and pulling at the walls, screaming for entrance, is nothing more than a whisper.

He tucks his chin into my shoulder, his hair tickling my cheeks, my neck, and his breathing is slow and quiet. I let out the breath I'd been holding slowly at the same time he exhales. I inhale only when he does, too. I breathe because he is breathing.

His hands ghost from my waist to my chest, never pressing too hard, only skimming to check for cracks, for breaks. Strumming over each rib like a string that could snap at any moment. Holding a hand over my heart, like he's afraid it won't be beating if he doesn't check for it.

His fingers skim from my chest to my wrists when he's satisfied that nothing's broken (not on the outside; no bones splintered, no uneven, labored beats of the heart). He traces my veins by memory, fingers hesitant, expecting rips, tears, ugly, terrible messes. 

There are none. I could never, knowing he'd wind up with my mess on his hands.

_And I'm bloody enough without drawing any blood myself._

His hands find my waist again, and he starts murmuring my name, over, over, over. Usually, I love the sound of it when it rumbles off his tongue, drips from his lips, slow and sweet as honey.

Tonight, it sounds different. The storm outside beats its fists against the window, wanting to dig its nails into something softer than glass, and my name gets lost in it all.

_The storm yells it louder, twisting it, making it bitter. If the way he says it is honey, the way the storm says it is flies, buzzing, greedy, dirty._

When he asks what happened, the rain and the wind and the thunder laugh mockingly at the sincerity. 

_Because he knows, he already knows what happened. He already knows about the chaos, about the roughness, about the absolute hell._

"She told," I mumble, because he may know what happened, but he won't know why. Not this time. It wasn't just the clouds bursting directly over me, because they've been building up for it, waiting for it. No, no this...this is wilder, more sudden.

This is going to destroy everything.

_Every rain drop sounds like a fist against the window. Every lightning bolt looks like it could blow the glass in, litter the floor, slice us to pieces._

He sucks in a harsh breath, and our chests bump awkwardly, back and forth, our inhales and exhales out of sync.

My heart speeds up again, and I shake. Tremble.

_This is what I get, I know this is what I get, I deserve it this time. I had it coming, for thinking that a shelter could be permanent. For thinking heaven could possibly exist in just pair of eyes, one set of arms, one boy. This is what I get for believing I could ever be safe, and for letting it make me reckless._

_This is what I get for making a habit out of meeting him outside the bar every night. This is what I get for letting him walk me home after my shift. This is what I get for holding his hand, simply because my hand felt small in his and I didn't feel like I had to look both ways crossing the street anymore; because what danger could fall upon me when his skin was warm on mine?_

_This is what I get for stopping to kiss him too close to home, for thinking that an alley could be as private as his room, at night, with the lights off and the door locked._

_This is what I get for being out later than usual, just because his hair was soft in between my fingers and his mouth was open against mine and it felt like coming up for air after being under water a moment too long._

_This is what I get for jumping guiltily when I heard her say my name (god, one of my youngest fucking sisters, staring at me with wide eyes, waiting to be told she hadn't seen what she thought she'd seen)._

_This is what I get for not telling her that she hadn't seen my tongue in his mouth before she'd run off._

_This is what I get for not getting to her before she could get home. Because I was rooted to the dirty alley floor, reluctant to move. I could still taste him every time I flicked my tongue over my lips, could still feel him through my clothes._

_This is what I get for realizing that that would be the last time he'd walk me home (or as close to home as we dared to get), the last time I'd let myself touch him like I had been, the last time he would breathe something sweet and fresh and new into my lungs. This is what I get for refusing to let the moment go._

"Did he...?" His voice nearly gets lost in the thunder that shakes the room, the house, the city, but it doesn't matter, because I know what he's asking. And I know that he knows the answer before he asks it.

I know because of the way his hands are back to feeling at my ribs, my wrists, my back, my throat.

I only nod, because he did. Of course he did.

_Storm, chaos, pounding on the glass, demanding to be let in. Screaming and thrashing and soaking everything in the room. Setting my shelter on fire. Ruined._

His hands found no cracks in my ribs but I feel, now, a prod everytime I breathe in. I feel a crack, a break, a splinter. I hold my breath until my chest burns, but the ache--the ache in every bone, in both lungs, in my heart, in every cell, still thrums, dull and steady.

_I have to tell him. I have to tell him, and he will feel the storm even though he is safe and warm and dry. And he will ask me, tell me, to stay, here, where we are safe._

_And I will have to tell him no._

"We're leaving." I barely hear my own voice; I sound like I'm screaming the words underwater. They're as warped and distorted and wrong as they feel, as the idea of it at all is. _We're leaving because she told, because you are intoxicating and I wasn't careful enough and she told. He doesn't want me near you. He doesn't want me fagging around the city. Doesn't want anyone else to know what I am, what I like, what I do. Being near to you is too risky._

_Being near to you is heaven for me, and it enrages him._

My lungs feel like they're filling with water, like the water on my skin and in my clothes is being sucked in, into every cell, into my veins, into my lungs. I am drowning, feet planted firmly on the ground, storm outside, storm within.

His hands drop to his sides, and he takes a quick step back. I don't dare turn, don't dare look at his face, his eyes. I don't want to see the rain in them.

_It's everywhere. The wind, the rain, the cold. Everywhere. Around us, on us, between us. Here, where I thought I could be safe._

"Stay. Please, stay. Here. With me." I hear the heaviness of the hell raging around us in his voice, but I also hear what I always loved about him: hope.

_Even when he knows I can't, knows I won't, he hopes for a yes. He's given too much hope to the wrong person. I've robbed him._

I am afraid of wrecking him with the ugly sound of rejection, so I deny him silently, with a shake of my head. _But even that tears him apart. He has always been open to me, holding nothing back, and this is nothing different. When he cries, when he sobs, I hear it loud and clear._

I squeeze my eyes shut again, hands gripping the windowsill. _I should have never come. I should have just disappeared._

But I have always been greedy with him. I take a hit of him every chance I get, like a drug, a nasty, deadly, addictive, beautiful, gentle, warm, drug. 

So I don't stop him when I hear him take baby steps towards me again. I don't stop him when he takes my hands, turns me around. When he strokes his fingers over my eyelids, I peek up at him through my lashes.

_Chaos. Pure chaos in his eyes, on his cheeks, dripping from his chin, clinging to his eyelashes._ When he closes the space between us and nudges his nose, gently (everything he does is gentle; he is always, constantly afraid of touching somewhere bruised, somewhere soft, somewhere cracked) against mine, I slip my shaking, wet, numb fingers into his hair. I hold on as long as I can, because he is everything, and this is the last time I will have anything at all.

His lips on mine are barely there, because my mouth is swollen and bloody and I know he can taste my wince in his mouth. 

_I want to crush myself to him, to memorize everything, every detail. I keep my distance, because I don't want him to memorize any of my details. I want to make it easy for him to forget it all._

"But I love you," he mumbles, and I feel the words in a warm, uneven breath, brushed against my mouth. 

I know he loves me. I've always known.

_And I love him too, more than I understand._ I say nothing back, because I never do. Never, once, have I said the words back. The words would only make things harder for him, especially now. I could never say them and then leave him. But...

_God, I love you, I love you, I love you._

I slide my fingers from his hair, and stare at his eyes, save the exact color of them in my head. Store the exact share of his lips, his nose, his cheeks. Memorize his jaw line and his collar bones with my eyes. Give a number to his height and tell myself I won't forget it. _I love you, I love you, I love you._

_I won't forget you, I love you._

I turn back to the window and start pushing it open, slowly, so it makes no noise. The air outside is thin and cold and it hurts to breathe it in. Maybe, just maybe, I'll stop breathing when I leave here. Maybe I'll hold my breath and give the storm what it wants.

He sobs again, loud and wet and broken, as I swing myself back into the rain. 

_This is how things should be. Him, warm, dry, sheltered. Me, cold, wet, exposed. What right have I to bring the dark inside? This is how things should be._

_And I won't forget you, I love you, I love you._

I don't turn to look back at him. I've got him stored firmly in my head, see him behind my eyes every time I blink. See tears in his eyes, see pain in the lines of his face. See the storm I brought inside, all around him.

_I'm sorry, I won't forget you, I love you, I love you._

Through the wind and rain, I hear his window slam shut, quickly, making all the noise in the world, shattering him, shattering me.

_Goodbye, I love you, I love you._


	2. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I knew that I had come face to face with someone whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself."_

It's too dark for Zayn to work anymore, but he likes what he got done tonight. He didn't pull the design out of the air, or anything; he's working off a sketch he did a couple weeks ago that's had him fascinated ever since he did it. It's a sketch of a boy (not anyone he knows, just someone he brought to life on paper) made up entirely of sharp lines. He doesn't usually add color to his drawings, but he felt like this one needed some, and once he'd gotten started with it, he couldn't stop. He'd made the eyes blue and loved it, so he'd added purples and reds everywhere he could...red in the boy's lips, purple in shadows under his eyes (or maybe they were bruises; he hadn't decided yet).

It looks just as good on the wall in front of him as it does in the sketchbook in his lap. He only got around to doing the eyes before the sun went down, but they look alright. They're more exaggerated in paint than in pencil. Wider. Darker. More...haunting.

He's glad this piece isn't based off of anyone he really knows. He doesn't think he could take eyes like these on him all the time.

He starts tucking his paints and sketchbook into his bag then, because he thinks he's had enough of this piece for the night. No point in sitting and staring at it if he can't work on it.

He's not in any rush to get home, though. Summer finally hit the city, and the window air conditioner in Zayn's room doesn't do much to break the heat. So he does what he always does when art isn't an option and home is unappealing: sticks a cigarette between his lips and starts walking. 

He's never alone on the streets at night. He's not the only tagger in the neighborhood, and all the others always wrap at around the same time he does. There's a homeless person sitting at the entrance of every other alleyway, always. True to shitty-neighborhood stereotype, there's always at least one crack addict stumbling around, wondering where the money for their next fix is going to come from. He doesn't mind them, though, and they don't mind him. When you're out at night often enough, you get used to the familiar faces. You stop worrying about them shooting you, and they stop worrying about you shooting them. And, most importantly: you never speak to them, and they never speak to you.

Maybe that's why he nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears, "Hey, can I bum a cig?" come from his right. No, no, that's _definitely_ why. That's _definitely_ why he looks at the boy leaning against the front of a little, boarded up shop to his right like he is absolutely insane.

That doesn't stop him from nodding and holding out his pack, though. The last thing he wants is to get shot tonight. 

He realizes that's a stupid thing to be afraid of when the boy grins at him. It's a sincere kind of grin, and it takes some of the sharpness out of the boy's face. It takes some of the tension out of the air. 

"Thanks," the boy mumbles as he lights up, and then he's pointing at a case of beer next to his feet, and saying, "you're welcome to that if you want any, but it's cheap and tastes like orphan's tears, so I'm not going to suggest you take one."

Zayn shakes his head, glancing down the street, towards home. He's not looking for a conversation, or a beer, or a friend. He wasn't in any rush to get home before, but he wouldn't mind being there now. "I don't drink," he says. He rocks back on his heels, tilts his head towards home as if to say that he has to go, anyway, but then he realizes it doesn't matter. The boy hasn't looked up at him, not once, since he's spoken.

That is, until he laughs, just a bit (it's a soft sound, and Zayn thinks it gets lost a bit in the heaviness of the heat, because it is small and light and sounds like smoke, almost), and peeks up at Zayn through his eyelashes. "After this shit...me neither," he says, and nudges his foot against the bottles. Zayn thinks he should laugh, or something, because that's obviously what the boy was going for, but he can't because...

Because the streetlights might be dim, but he can still see that the boy's eyes are blue, in an unbelievable kind of way. They're so blue, they look fake. They look like a color that'd come out of, oh...a can of spray paint, maybe?

Even more stunning to him, though, is the deep purple surrounding the boy's eyes, spilling down his cheeks like someone had touched him with dirty hands. The colors look so much darker in the eerie, pale glow coming from the streetlights than they really must be, and Zayn doesn't want to look at them. He doesn't want to wonder why a stranger is covered entirely in blacks and blues and purples. He doesn't want to wonder how said stranger is smiling regardless.

"Your liver'll thank you for that," Zayn says weakly as he starts taking steps away. The boy drops his eyes again, and Zayn's grateful, because he can finally look away. He hadn't realized he'd lost his breath when he'd seen the boy's eyes, but he knows now that air comes rushing back into his lungs.

His hands shake as he grabs for another cigarette and lights it, takes a quick drag, and keeps walking. If the boy has a response for him, he doesn't wait to hear it. He doesn't like the way that boy's eyes made him feel: guilty and sick, as if he has any reason to care about purples that shouldn't be on skin that pale, around eyes that blue.

When he finally gets home, his hands are still shaking. He opens his sketchbook to draw, because maybe that'd calm him down just enough to be able to sleep, but instead, he ends up staring at the sketch he did weeks ago, of a boy made up entirely of sharp lines, with eyes wide and blue and surrounded by purple. 

He thinks he knows, now, whether those purples are shadows or bruises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slow rollin into the actual fun


	3. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"This is going to be my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands."_

Niall's already chatting up a couple singles at the bar when Zayn tucks himself behind the bar to clock in, but that doesn't stop him from clapping Zayn on the back and greeting him like they haven't seen each other in months (when, really, they saw each other last night. He'd be annoyed if Niall weren't so...well. Niallish).

"How are ya, Zaynie?" Niall asks, flashing him a smile that looks too young to belong to a bartender, and, really, _it is._ Niall's what Zayn likes to call _barely legal._ The definition of _barely legal,_ in this case: a twenty-one year old kid serving alcoholic concoctions to people twice his age. _Barely legal_ allows him to do what he does well, though. He sure as _hell_ keeps the forty-some year old ladies happy, which brings in good money and good tips, so, good for him. 

"I was better before I walked in," he jokes as he walks away from the bar to take a look around the tavern. He's not being entirely serious. He doesn't _dislike_ his job. He knows he could have it a lot worse than cleaning up after hungry drunks. It's not very rewarding, though. Minimum wage a couple times a week isn't going to pay for his paints or (and the thought of this excites him a hell of a lot less than spray paint does) his college shit come fall. It'll get better when school ends (in a week. Four and a half days, to be exact) and he can work full days, but not _much_ better. 

Especially not if business keeps up like it has been. Just like he figured, there were only a few tables sitting. The place is empty, except for the bar, thanks to Niall. So instead of bussing, he walks behind the bar again and starts washing glasses at the sinks tucked low enough that they're not right in the patrons' faces.

"So guess what I heard," Niall says when he finishes a conversation with a woman leaning forward _just_ enough that Zayn can see down her shirt if he looks up from his dishes.

"What'd you hear?" He asks, trying to ignore the smell coming from the fruity drink Niall's mixing.

"Heard we're getting a new busser, so _someone's_ gonna be a waiter now and _someone_ can use his waiter tips to buy new paints and stuff..."

Zayn lifts his head and grins. The idea of not handling other people's dirty dishes anymore is _so_ appealing. "Yeah? Who's the new busser?" 

Niall shrugs and pushes the woman with her boobs out her drink. "Some kid your age. Must be new around here, because I dunno who he is."

Zayn breathes a laugh and wipes his hands on his apron, because he figures he should probably go check on the _two tables_ that're gracing his presence. "Right, because you've been here forever, old-timer. You know _everyone._ "

"Twenty-one years," Niall says, chuckling, "that's three more years than _you._ My knowledge is much more extensive."

Zayn rolls his eyes as he walks away. _What an idiot._ He is curious, though, about the new staff member he's apparently got. He doesn't remember any new families moving in around here recently, so he doesn't know why someone _they don't know_ would've been hired. Maybe it's a college kid home from the summer, or something. Maybe.

As he goes around picking up dirty plates and empty bar glasses, he realizes he really doesn't care _who_ the new busser is. He's just glad they're taking the job from him.

***

It's past midnight when he finally gets out of work, and he's exhausted and annoyed, but he doesn't go straight home. He wants to work on his newest piece, get it at least _half way_ finished, before the cops have it painted over.

He'd planned on working on the shape of the boy's face, but instead he finds himself working on his mouth. Red, thin, chapped, broken, bruised. He's working entirely in the dark, so he knows everything he's doing is probably shit, but can't bring himself to care. He's not sure he'd be able to look at the piece, anyway. It's upsetting in a new way, because the boy went from vibrant and colorful to beaten and bloody without Zayn meaning for him to.

It makes him sad. He always wishes the police _would_ get around to painting over it. Then he could start over, keep the purples and reds out of the boy's face.

That'd be really, really nice.

***

"Hey, Niall? That kid doesn't look twenty-one," Zayn teases as he comes into work the next night. Niall is pushing a beer towards someone who was most _definitely_ not twenty-one, but who always managed to talk Niall into giving him a drink anyway.

"Hush, Zayn," Liam says as he takes a sip of his beer, "it's rude to make assumptions about customers."

Zayn rolls his eyes, types in his employee number so he can clock in. Liam doesn't come here often; he's not from the neighborhood, doesn't live in this part of the city. He lives farther in, where the streets are always full of people carrying shopping bags and talking on the latest iPhones. It bothers him, just a bit, when Liam does come here. He doesn't...look right here. Anyone can tell he doesn't fit in.

But he's glad to see him, nonetheless.

"That new busser's here," Niall says before Zayn takes off from the bar, "Boss said you could show him around tonight, start waitering next time you're in."

"Where is he?" Zayn asks, and Niall points a finger to the outdoor area. Not a surprise, really; even on slow nights, things usually fill up out there. Must be more fun to get drunk outside than inside.

He does a quick scan of the inside and then pushes out the side door. The humidity in the air settles heavy over him instantly, and he thinks he'll let the new kid handle the outside tonight. He stays out for long enough to spot the kid, though. He's got his back to Zayn, and he's taking empty bottles and glasses from a table with a few chatty, _hammered_ old men seated at it. He's a slight boy, tiny and thin, wispy hair, quickly moving hands. 

Once he's got everything he can hold, he turns towards Zayn to come inside and breaks into a grin. Zayn recognizes him, but he's not sure from where. He waves to the boy and holds the door open so he can come through.

"Thanks," he says, and Zayn knows _for sure_ that he's heard that voice before. It's thin, soft, gets lost a bit in the noise and humidity outside.

He walks next to the boy as they make their way to the back, just in case he doesn't know what to do with the glasses. "I'm Zayn," he says, holding open yet another door for the boy and then pointing to a grumpy forty-something standing near the dishwasher, "you can put glasses back by him. Throw bottles away."

The boy nods and does as he's told. Zayn's fascinated by him already. It's the way he walks: small steps that make the movement in his hips look exaggerated. He tosses his head every once in a while to keep his hair out of his eyes. Each one of his motions are fluid, just on the brink of energetic.

"I'm Louis," the boy calls back as he throws away the last bottle he carried back. "I think I may have to bum another cigarette later. This place is giving me a headache," he laughs, and Zayn stares at him with wide eyes when he turns back around. If this is the boy from the other night, with the airy laugh and the cheap booze, then...

What happened to his bruises? His skin is clear of any marks, the only color there the blue of his eyes. He seems confused by the look Zayn's giving him, but he can't help it: last time they'd seen each other, Louis had looked like hell. And now...now he's unmarked, flawless.

He makes Zayn think of a wall with an ugly tag on it, painted over. Anyone who'd seen the tag still remembers it, and no amount of paint will help them unsee it.

Louis' eyes are still looking at him questioningly, and it's making him uneasy.

"Right, well, I'll work the inside tonight. You...stay outside. If you need anything, ask Niall for help," he says as he backs out of the kitchen. He hides himself behind the bar until Louis' gone back outside. 

"He seems like a nice kid," Niall says when the side door shuts quietly behind Louis. Both Niall and Liam are looking at Zayn, waiting to hear what he thinks, but he doesn't want to talk about Louis. Doesn't even want to think about him, really.

"I'm just glad he's bumping me up," he manages after a moment of silence, and then Liam shrugs and downs the rest of his beer and Niall goes back to mixing drinks and Zayn ducks outside for a quick smoke, because he wants to get that over with before he winds up smoking with Louis.

***

He did his best to avoid Louis for the rest of the night, and for the most part, he succeeded. They’d bumped into each other once or twice, and Louis’d had a question or two, but other than that, they’d stayed away from each other.

It’s late now, later than he’s usually out, but he got out of work later than usual and he wanted to work on (well, maybe not work on, but look at) his piece for awhile before he made his way home. Now he's sitting on the dirty ground, back against one wall and staring at the other. It's cloudy tonight, like it might storm in a few hours, and the brightest thing around him is the lit end of each cigarette he's gone through thoughtfully.

His eyes have gone unfocused and he's lost in thought (about bruises, about blue eyes, about laughter lighter than air) when there's a sudden serious of _clangs_ and _bangs_ from farther into the alley. He jumps, his cigarette falling from between his fingers and hitting the ground, only half gone. He curses under his breath, thinking a stupid fucking cat must have tried to get into a trashcan and knocked it over, or something. He lights another cigarette to help calm his pulse, settle his heart, before he hears it: soft, annoyed cursing. And then foot steps. A can being kicked against the wall.

So, not a cat.

He tries not to tense against the wall as he squints, looking down the alley for whoever it was making all the noise. Probably a drunk, or an addict, or something--which, whatever, just, hopefully they're not a particularly pissed off addict or drunk. He's never had a problem being out late before, but he's never had someone throwing trash cans around in one of _his_ (yes, his, because he's painting it, so he's got dibs for awhile) alleys. 

He relaxes back against the wall again when the cursing gets louder and the footsteps get closer, because the person moving towards him is small, slight. Even if there were to be a problem, it wouldn't be hard to solve it. So, whatever.

He's back to looking at his work in progress now, choosing to let whoever pass by without a word, because what's the point in confrontation. He's taking another slow, lazy drag on his cigarette, when, because god forbid he just have some time to think, he hears,

"Zayn?" In a voice he's only had to hear a few times but that he is quickly becoming accustomed too. A light, rough, wispy voice.

Son of a _bitch._

He exhales quickly and inhales just as quickly, nearly sending himself into a coughing fit. He doesn't _know_ Louis, has no reason, really, to be made so...uncomfortable?...by him, but, well. "Hi, Louis," he mumbles, staring intently at the wall. The bricks. The paint. The blues, the purples. The blacks.

"You got out quickly," he comments, without accusation in his voice. Just sounds curious, like he's wondering what could be better than watching Liam and Niall clean up the bar, getting to turn out all the lights and lock everything up. Yeah. Woohoo.

(Fine, maybe it'd usually be fun. Niall'd give Liam all the alcohol he so desired and they'd laugh too loudly and stumble out together, Liam sandwiched between them because he can't hold his liquor and wouldn't be able to hold himself up. Fine. But he wasn't it the mood for it tonight.)

"Yeah. Everything go alright without me?" He stubs his cigarette out and immediately reaches for another. He's gone through a half a pack just sitting out here, and he knows he should stop, because his entire cardiovascular system feels sooty and shitty and he doesn't have the funds to chain smoke. He feels really shitty in _general_ right now, though, so he firmly ignores the little voice telling him to take a break, lights up, and drags. Eyes fixed firmly on the eyes painted on the wall.

"If by 'alright' you mean Liam tripping over a barstool and Niall laughing too hard to take inventory then, yeah, I guess it went alright."

Zayn lets out a soft, short laugh (more a particularly smile-y breath than anything, really) before he can help himself. Louis' funny, in an easy way. He noticed it the other night, and again tonight when he watched him helping Niall behind the bar and making even the sober patrons laugh. Hell, he even got Liam to chuckle, and Liam's not the type to laugh with strangers (he's too nervous around strangers to find them funny). Funny in a charming way, even. But still...

The eyes on the wall taunt him, make him nervous. Funny and charming, sure, but Zayn's almost positive there's more to the boy than that, and he's sure as hell going through a lot to hide it all. A lot, like having bruises that look like they're set into his skin, never to fade away, one night, and then none the next. A lot.

A lot, so he doesn't say anything, hoping Louis will take the hint and keep walking. He doesn't, though, of course he doesn't. Zayn keeps his eyes on the ground and watches Louis' beat-up Converse scuff at the ground, watches him shift his weight restlessly. Three cigarettes worth of seconds pass before Louis speaks again, his voice holding something wound tightly, something off,

"D'you know who painted that?" 

The question makes him jump a bit, tears his eyes from the ground and up to Louis and--shit. He looks away almost immediately, because Louis’ fidgeting with his sleeves, biting his lip, eyes wide and teary and he looks...he looks like someone who's afraid of the dark. Someone who's afraid of walking home alone. Someone who's seen their bruises painted onto a grimy alley wall. 

"No idea," he says, in a rush, in a quick cloud of smoke, before he can even consider being honest. It's not...like he'd _meant_ for the goddamn thing to look so much like Louis. He hadn't _known_ Louis when he'd drawn it, or even when he'd started painting it.

Louis' 'oh' is so quiet Zayn nearly misses it over the sounds of Louis' hands shaking: the disturbance his trembling is causing. The air around them shakes with it, knocking roughly into Zayn, and it's going to drive the both of them crazy--

"Do you want one?" He asks, too loudly and a little frantically, as he holds up his pack and his lighter. Louis' nervous movements are making him anxious, making the moon seem fuller and the darkness darker. He doesn't have a damn clue why he gets so weird around Louis, so fucking nervous (they're just bruises, and he's not even sure he really saw them anymore), but he is. He is, and he needs Louis to stop fidgeting, before he starts freaking out too. 

Louis nods and takes a cigarette from the pack, then takes the lighter. It takes far longer than it should for him to snap it into life and light up, with his shaking hands and their uncertain movements. It's aggravating. Annoying.

Is it normal to feel this negatively towards a complete stranger who has been nothing but nice to him? Probably not. He's just got a bad _feeling_ about Louis. Can't explain it, can't help it.

"Thanks," Louis says, even his voice shaking now, as he presses Zayn's lighter back into his hands. He's started jiggling his knee, his free hand tapping sporadic beats onto his thigh.

Right. That's enough Louis for tonight, he thinks.

"I'm heading home," he says as he stands, pushing himself up and away from the wall. His eyes are on the street, looking towards home. Looking firmly away from Louis. Because he's fidgety, and he looks frightened (for reasons unbeknownst to Zayn or the alley or the moon or the air or anything and anyone at all), and he looks like the kind of person afraid of walking alone at night, and...

Shit.

"Do you want me to walk you back? Or something?" He adds, though he's taking small, backwards steps towards the street. Away from Louis.

Not that he seems too offended. When he dares a glance at Louis he's staring, wide eyed, and completely still besides a quick shaking of his head and a single, sharp movement of his lips: "No."

Right then.

He turns fully, shoves his hands in his pockets and keeps walking. Out of the alley, into the street, away from Louis. He tosses an unenthusiastic "see you" into the alley without turning his head, hoping nothing gets thrown back. 

And nothing does. Nothing but the sound of an inhale, a sharp exhale, and a can being kicked. No footsteps, no other movement. The boy with the bruises stays in the alley with a painting that accidentally depicts the things he's trying to hide, at least until Zayn is far away enough not to know if he left or not. Maybe for hours. Maybe, till the sun came to chase away the shadows. Maybe.

Maybe, but he doesn't really care. Not too much. It's not his problem. _Louis_ isn't his problem.

( _Yet._ He can't help but think it. _Yet._ He can't ignore the feeling that Louis simply isn't his problem _yet._ The word, one syllable, three letters, keeps him up all night.

_Not his problem, not yet._

The thought makes him sick with fear. _Yet._

He hopes this _yet_ period lasts a very, very long time.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know. I usually don't take this long to...get into things. Like I'm not one for preamble. Yet here I am. Slow rolling.
> 
> I swear there'll be more in the next lil' part. I have plans. I have big plans for this.


	4. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for it..."_

The rest of Zayn's week is entirely Louis free. Doesn't see him, doesn't think about him. He's cramming for exams, barely passing exams, forgetting everything he crammed in about the exams, and then repeating the process. And come Thursday afternoon, when it's all over and done with, he's filling his head with thoughts of summer, late nights bleeding into early mornings, weak sun in his eyes when he's trying to fall asleep. He's thinking about running around with Niall and Liam and, come fall...leaving.

Leaving. On Friday morning, he can't bring himself to care about graduation. He can only think about leaving, and it's the last, stupid, pointless ceremony before he can really do it. Does he feel guilty for thinking that way? Sure. Absolutely. His parents and his sisters have spent all morning telling him how proud they are of him, and if he decides he doesn't want to leave come fall, he doesn't have to. They'll be just as proud of him here.

(They're selfish. They love him selfishly.)

He nods and smiles at all of them throughout the day, thankful for the escape changing into his suit gives him. He'd be thankful for any escape from them, really.

(Maybe he's selfish too. Maybe it's a family thing.)

The school auditorium is packed: everyone's family sitting in little huddles, talking only to each other, pointing at their graduate. From his spot in line, waiting with everyone else to be called up to receive their diploma, he notices an empty chair next to his mother.

They'd reserved a seat for Doniya, but Zayn had known she wouldn't come. She lives with them, for god's sake, but no one's seen her in days--she's probably holed up in a stranger's house, high or drunk or both, potentially pregnant, more than likely unsure of who she is and why she was meant to be home today.

Not that it matters. She's always been like that.

Niall'd said he'd fill the seat, though, if he could. If Liam's own ceremony finished in time.

Apparently it hadn't.

Oh well, oh well. Surprise surprise.

He hears his name being called as he gives the empty seat a dirty look; a classic mispronunciation. "Zayn Mah-lick."

Fuck's fucking sake, he can't wait to get out of here.

***

He feels ready to crawl out of his skin by the time he's piling into the back of the family car, stuck without wiggle-room between two sisters too small to take up as much space as they do. They're arguing across him about something (something stupid, he's sure, so he doesn't even bother intervening), and his parents are babbling at him, going on _again_ about how he can always change his mind and stay, if he wants to, they'll be proud of him either way--

(The way they must be so proud of Doni, who stayed, who they never see, who probably spends an hour a day sober, who is definitely going to end up dying of either an OD or an STD, whichever comes first. So proud.)

He just wants a cigarette, but he knows the lecture he'll get if he takes them out in the car around his sisters. ("If you want to die, fine, but your sisters don't!" Debatable, honestly.)

He lets out a relieved sigh so strong his lungs nearly collapse when they finally putter home and Liam's car is sitting in front of their house. It's embarrassingly shiny and new compared to the beat down houses it poses next to, but whatever, he'll let it go today because _this is his chance to get the hell away from his family._

Niall honks the horn obnoxiously at them as they climb out of the car, and Zayn can't even find it in him to be annoyed. 

"Someone looks pretty," Niall teases, his head stuck out the window (Liam's tie is hanging around his neck, Zayn can't help but notice; Niall definitely could've come if he'd wanted to. He guesses Liam kept him busy, though. Fantastic). 

"Go grab a change of clothes, Zayn, we're going to go do...something tame and legal," Liam calls, leaning out the passenger side window (Liam's car, Liam's car that he never drives because Niall likes to, fucking annoying married couple) to wave at the rest of the family. 

His parents have always liked Liam, because he's golden and smiley and sunny and happy. Because he's shiny; because he's not like anyone from around here. Zayn leaves them chatting with him and pointedly ignoring Niall, who they've never liked, because he's older than both him and Liam, and loud and sometimes drunk and occasionally high, and he's typical run-down neighborhood product. Nothing like Liam.

Everything like Zayn.

He doesn't even spare the time to _actually_ change. He's felt bitter the whole day, annoyed, angry. He can't...no. He's got to leave, before he gives himself something to feel guilty about. He'll change in the back of Liam's car. Not like he's never done it before.

His sisters are already flopped purposefully on the couch, fanning themselves; his mother in the kitchen, shuffling fruit back and forth on the counter. They all look miserable.

He doesn't say goodbye on his way out.

When he slides into Liam's car (backseat, because he's always stuck in the backseat, of course) with his clothes clutched in his hands, Niall tilts the rearview mirror down and waggles his eyebrows in the reflection. 

"You're so funny, Nialler. We're all laughing really hard," Zayn grouches as he undoes his tie in jerky tugs and pulls his shirt apart by the buttons. And Niall is laughing, and only laughs harder when Liam fixes the mirror and taps on Niall's knee in a silent, 'shut up and drive, stupid'.

"So how was it?" Liam asks as Niall shoots down the street, one hand dangling out the window and the other fiddling with the radio. (It's a wonder he hasn't killed them all yet, honestly.)

"They mispronounced my name." He focuses on painting on his jeans instead of thinking about how it was horrendously mundane, when it probably was meant to feel special. 

"Did they?"

"Mahlick."

"If it helps at all," Niall says when he finally settles on a station, "they called me Neil at my graduation." 

"You graduated?" Zayn quips before he can stop himself, half because he knows Niall won't really care, and half because he's still annoyed Niall didn't come (even though he didn't really expect him to).

Niall, as expected, throws his head back and laughs, clapping his hands together. The car swerves and Liam yelps, but Niall just keeps laughing, ignoring the looks Liam's shooting him.

"You're so funny, Zaynie. We're all laughing really hard," Niall says through cackles. 

"The sarcasm got lost in the fact that you're _actually laughing_."

"Oh lighten up, Zayn. We're gonna have fun tonight!" Liam's enthusiasm is a bit annoying, honestly, but whatever. He watches Liam wrestling Niall's hands back to the wheel quietly, feeling third-wheely and pissed off and not up for _fun_ at all.

"Where're we even going?" 

Liam waves a dismissive hand, as if details don't matter in the least bit. "A party. Weed. Alcohol," ("I don't drink), "Soda for those of us that don't drink, I'm sure. Food. Music. You'll have _fun._ "

Doubtful.

***

15 Minutes

Niall and Liam have abandoned him.

Not purposely, he knows, but still, he's standing on the edge of the room alone. Alone. And he can't even hide behind a drink, because he _doesn't_ drink, but nights like these make him feel like he should start. Or will start. Whatever.

He knew he was going to hate tonight as soon as Niall'd pulled up to the building: a hotel. A city hotel. Someone had _rented out a city hotel._

The ballroom (he assumes this is usually the ballroom, but hell, what would he know) had been completely transformed into a black light rave. Because why not. Why not piss your money out on this. It's fun. Wooh. Yay.

Rich people can kiss his ass. Really.

Liam was right about the weed, though. Quality, and free. So maybe rich people and he can live in harmony just for tonight.

45 Minutes

There's a boy with a bong on the balcony who thinks that the entire universe rests on a dandelion fluff, and that we're all being carried around by some gentle giant.

The more hits Zayn takes, the more plausible it seems.

"I just, like...what if he drops us?" Zayn asks eventually, staring at the boy, whose face is blurry and whose name is a mystery, like he holds the key to life, the galaxy. Like he owns the bong (which he does).

"Dunno, man. Guess we'll just have to hope someone else is waiting to catch us."

60 Minutes

Zayn wants to paint Louis on a white wall. Regularly. No bruises or anything. Just pink in his lips and blue in his eyes.

Then he wants to paint bruises on him with the kind of paint that can only be seen properly under black light. 

Pain can only be seen properly in the dark.

90 Minutes

He's alone on the balcony now, and distantly, under the yelling and the bass and the singing, he hears a light, breezy laugh. He feels it humming against his ear, feels the breath of it on his neck.

He longs, in a funny way, to have it breathed, sweet and fresh, into his lungs.

105 Minutes

He was looking for the bathrooms, but instead, he finds Liam, sitting back against a wall in a quiet hallway, knees pulled up to his chest. Crying softly, pouting miserably.

He's not in the least bit surprised. 

He's been to countless parties with Liam over the years, and at least twenty five percent of them end like this: with Liam having taken something he shouldn't have, and getting sick, and turning being miserable into an art form. 

He leans back against the wall and then slides until he's on the floor next to Liam, who gives him a watery smile as soon as their eyes are level.

(The first time he hung out with Liam was at a party; Niall'd invited Zayn weeks before, and in those weeks he started dating Liam, and of course, everyone in Niall's life has to be friends, so he'd brought Liam to kickstart his and Zayn's friendship.

About an hour in, he and Niall had located the weed and Liam had yelled something about getting another drink, so they'd split up. Maybe if they hadn't been so high, they'd have thought to go look for Liam (puppy eyed, sweet smiled Liam) when he didn't come back right away.

It didn't take long for Niall's talk about alternate dimensions and the universe to give Zayn a headache, and then the air had started to seem too thick, unbreathable, so he'd stepped out of the room, squirmed his way through a seemingly endless crowd and, eventually, finally, thankfully, found his way out the back. He'd just wanted a cigarette. Just wanted a break, and then to get back into things.

Instead, what he got was Liam, hunched over himself, getting sick, looking shockingly pale under the moonlight, the stars.

He hadn't said more than a handful of words to Liam all night, but he still rushed over to him, took him gently by the shoulders, ran gentle lines up and down his back. It's kind of a...rule of partying, if you will, that if you see someone getting really sick, you stop to help. Not stopping would be like holding a glass of water, seeing someone on fire, and drinking it. Not cool, not in the least bit.

Maybe he'd known it was more than that, though. Maybe he'd known that anyone Niall liked like he seemed to like Liam, even then, had to be good. Maybe he'd known he and Liam would become something like brothers.

Or maybe all that had just been the weed. Either way, Liam shaking under his fingers scared him, and he couldn't help but feel relieved when it finally stopped, and Liam gave him a watery, shaky smile.

"Hey, Zayn," he'd croaked, straightening himself up. 

That was when he'd known Liam was on an entirely _different_ level. He's shivering and sweating at the same time, crying, looking ready to get sick again, and...smiling.

Liam was someone to fear.

"Alright?" Zayn'd asked cautiously, wondering if he should be panicking and asking Liam if he'd...taken bad drugs, or something. Who knows?

But he was already brushing himself off and nodding vehemently. "Yeah. Course," he'd said casually, and after a pause, he'd added, "Don't, um...tell Niall. Okay?"

Was it a bad idea not to tell Niall? Probably.

Did he end up telling Niall? No.)

"Alright?" Zayn asks, putting a protective arm around Liam's shoulders. 

Liam nods enthusiastically, pressing himself more firmly into Zayn's side. "Yeah, course. Just had a bit too much to drink."

Bullshit. Zayn knows it's bullshit. Liam holds his alcohol better than _Niall_ does, which says a lot. He’s seen Liam do a kegstand, take a body shot, and then down a beer and still walk straight. He’s a fucking machine.

Liam’s problem comes in at about the same time drugs come in, which should still be terrifying, but it’s become more of a fact than a shock. Liam’s problem is that he’ll take anything. _Anything._ If it’s offered to him, he takes it, whether he knows what he’s taking or not.

It’s amazing he hasn’t died yet, honestly.

“Right, yeah.”

He’s seen Liam in worse shape than this, and he acted like he was fine those times as well. Liam could smile through an overdose. No doubt about it.

It’s amazing he hasn’t yet, honestly.

“Niall went to get water…”

"So he knows you had too much to drink?" Zayn asks skeptically, and Liam gives him a sad, pleading look.

"Please don't tell him anything else."

Zayn doesn't know if Niall is oblivious to Liam's _slight_ problem or in denial about it. At this point, he thinks it has to be the latter. Everyone knows Liam should've died about six times over by now, and that's got nothing to do with alcohol.

Should he tell Niall? Probably.

Would he tell Niall? Probably not.

105 Minutes

Niall still hadn't come back, and Liam's tears were beginning to fall faster, so Zayn had gotten up to look for him.

He hasn't found him yet, and he's considering going back to Liam when he gets distracted by more weed and a soft looking boy with a tattoo.

"That's fucking sick," he mumbles, one hand holding a joint and the other brushing over the boy's upper arm, where a detailed ship is etched into the skin. 

"Yeah," the boy says, smoke pouring slowly from his lips. He's got curls that bounce and eyes that are green and very, very sad, Zayn thinks. Like someone had reached into them and ripped the light out. "Yeah, yeah, someone I love has a compass to match..."

Zayn thinks that's beautiful, but he knows he's too fucked up right now to remember it tomorrow.

120 Minutes

Liam isn't in the hallway anymore. Zayn hopes he didn't crawl off and die.

145 Minutes

He's underneath a boy whose name he doesn't know when his phone starts buzzing.

"Can't you just ignore it?" The boy asks in a gruff voice when Zayn slips his phone out because it won't stop going off, so it must be important. The boys hands are suddenly too grabby for how drowsy Zayn's feeling. There's a handful of texts from Niall, all of which Zayn can't read because the light from the screen is blinding in the dark.

"I think my friend died," Zayn replies sleepily as he rolls off the...couch...?

"What a cock block."

"Yeah, he's a dick," Zayn nods, stumbling from the room and squinting at his texts.

Nail File

_Z, Liam got sick. Taking him home (1:05 AM)_  
So I forgot you don't have a car (1:37 AM)  
Do you want me to come back for you?? (1:37 AM)  
Zayn (1:39 AM)  
Are you alive (1:42 AM)  
...gettin fucked? ;D (1:48 AM)  
No really are you okay (1:49 AM)  


Oh. They forgot about him. He rubs his eyes and types out a reply, which he doesn't mean to sound angry, but, well.

Why aren't i surprised (1:53 AM)  


_Dunno. I've never done this before (1:55 AM)  
I kind of feel like I just left my toddler in a strip club (1:56 AM)_  


First of all you forgot about me spring break last year (1:57 AM)  
Second of all im pretty sure toddlers cant get into strip clubs (1:57 AM)  
Third of all, youre an idiot (1:58 AM)

_But do you want me to come back? (2:00 AM)_  


He can't think of something he wants less.

Im gonna walk (2:02 AM)  


He's probably going to die. Kind of a long way home.

_Sounds good. See you tomorrow (2:03 AM)_  


Yep.

***

It was a stupid party anyway. And Liam and Niall aren't that great anyway. He doesn't mind leaving. He especially doesn't mind leaving alone. By himself. While his only friends are probably curled up together.

He hopes Liam throws up all over Niall. Fuck those two.

If he doesn't think too hard about it, the walk home isn't really _that_ long. All things considered. Because he's never had a car and he's too cheap to pay for bus rides. So it's not bad. Really. And walking in the dark isn't that bad either. It's kind of nice. Quiet.

It's just the _principle_ of it all.

He's glad Liam's at home (or at Niall's, but what's the difference, really). The last thing he wants is for him to get hurt. But _they left him?_

They always fucking do this. For Niall and Liam, no one else exists but Niall and Liam. It's annoying. It's annoying how into each other they are.

He really wishes he could hate them for it, especially on nights like these, but he can't. And he doesn't know who he'd call his friends if he did, so he doesn't try to force it.

It would be nice not to be so jealous of them, though. Just for awhile. 

It's nearly three now and the city is getting quieter, the buildings shorter and farther apart. He's considering not going home at all. He might even turn around, go back to the city and walk along with the sun as it comes up. It's not like anyone would come looking for him.

But he's already walking through the one story neighborhoods that try to pass as middle class suburban and fail, so. Might as well just keep going. Might as well just keep on walking home so his family can passive aggressively try guilting him into not going to college, and so that he can wait on angry drunks, and so that Niall and Liam can ignore him. He loves being home, it's so fucking--

"Fuck's _sake_!"

He startles, looks up, and starts...laughing. There's a boy struggling to jerk one of the low windows open, cursing at it. Botched burglary?

The boy at the window jumps when Zayn's startled laugh shatters the silence and whips around, and--

Oh.

Well. It's not so funny anymore.

"Zayn?"

Louis. Of course. 

"Are you breaking into that house...?" He's so tired. He just wants to find somewhere to sleep. Fuck Niall for making him walk home. The entire day has been ridiculous, and this is just...this just...tops it all off. 

Louis brushes anxiously at the windowsill and shakes his head, eyes on the ground. "No."

Of course not. "Do you live here?" 

Maybe he locked himself out. Maybe he really was breaking in. Maybe Zayn doesn't really care either way, and isn't sure why he's bothering to ask. 

"Uh...no," Louis says, toeing at the ground for a moment before turning back around and peeking in the window, "it just, um. I guess it used to be home."

If Louis' voice hadn't gotten so soft and if Zayn wasn't so entirely done with everything, he might think to ask what the weird wording was about. But...

"So you were breaking in."

"I was just _looking_!" 

He's too tired for this.

"Whatever. I'm going home." He'd rather lay face down in the dirt with the bugs and cigarette ashes, but he starts walking nonetheless. If Louis wants to stare into a stranger's bedroom, then fine. Not Zayn's problem.

Except that apparently it is, because he's taken maybe six steps when he hears hurried footsteps behind him, and then Louis' walking by his side.

"Didn't you graduate today?"

Zayn's head is beginning to pound, and his body aches, and he doesn't know why it matters or why Louis cares, so he ignores the question, keeps his eyes forward, and picks up his pace. He can ignore Louis for the rest of the walk home. No problem.

"...so it was that bad, huh?"

Problem.

"It was worse than that," he says flatly, not having the energy to snap, "how was yours." Not that he cares. Much. (Maybe he just hopes someone else's day was as bad as his.)

Louis'd been looking at the ground, but Zayn feels him look up now, feels his eyes on his face. "I didn't graduate today...?"

His head in pounding in time with his footsteps. "When do you?"

Louis laughs, light and breezy. Zayn swears he's been hearing the sound all night. "Two years ago."

Zayn remembers suddenly that he was in no rush to get home and stops in his tracks. "What?"

Louis stops a few steps in front of him and nods, looking impish. "I graduated two years ago."

"You...that's a lie. We both _know_ that's a lie; you can't be older than me you're four feet tall--"

Louis laughs, the sound of it sudden, a burst in the dark, a spark. Zayn doesn't want to love the sound as much as he does, but he can't help it. If hope were a sound, it'd be Louis' laugh.

Or maybe he's just really high. Whatever.

"I'm at least five feet. _At least._ "

Zayn finds himself grinning and holding his hands a few inches apart between them, as if to say, _"you'd be lucky to be four feet tall, honestly."_

Louis swats his hands down, and Zayn wonders when they became friends.

"So...I guess you were with Liam and Niall?"

Zayn's smile falters at the question, and it's got nothing to do with Niall leaving without him (well. Almost nothing). The way that Louis asked ruins the moment; the older boy is back fo fidgeting, shifting, glancing behind him. 

Zayn wonders why he ever thought they'd become friends.

"Yep."

He was in a rush to get home, wasn't he?

"Did they get home okay...?"

Louis' taken a few, small steps backwards, and Zayn wonders what, exactly, he's running from. Constantly moving away from it, constantly looking over his shoulder for it.

He wonders if he cares.

"Yep."

He starts moving too, away from Louis, towards home. Which is absolutely where he wants to be right now.

Louis nods, eyes focused on the ground, fingers picking at his shirt. "Do you ever...like..." His voice is more hesitant than Zayn's ever heard it, and soft as it always is, it seems softer, now. Like whatever it is he's running from could be listening. "Do you ever worry about them...?"

Liam takes every drug he can get his hands on and Niall has no idea. 

"Why would I?" He snaps, trying, and failing, not to glare at Louis, but Louis kind of deserves to be glared at, but he's so small and fragile looking Zayn thinks that in this case looks could really kill, but...

Fuck, he needs to go to bed.

"I dunno," Louis says hurriedly, and whatever he's running from must be right over Zayn's shoulder, because he turns and starts walking away as soon as the words have left his mouth.

Zayn feels a chill down his back despite the summer heat as he watches Louis run, and before he can stop himself, he glances over his shoulder. 

Nothing but darkness. Nothing to see. Nothing to be afraid of.

(But Zayn is suddenly in a hurry to get home again. Just in case whatever dark thing Louis sees might be catching up.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could say I'm happy with this, but


	5. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to the guest who gave this a kudos, thus leading me to reread it and decide to write it again. This was a spur of the moment decision I made literally four hours ago. Viva la JABWFM.

“What’s that, then?” Zayn asks, staring at the chalk-drawn “masterpiece” on the ground in front of him, tilting his head from side to side, trying to make sense of the childlike scribbles.

“It’s a ship.”

“...Is it?”

“It is,” Louis says, his eyebrows pinched together and his hand moving slowly, drawing waves (maybe?) under the ship (maybe?).

“Are you sure?” Zayn presses, playfully knocking his hand into Louis’, sending a single “wave” crashing into the “ship”.

“Not really,” Louis amends, wiping his hands on his jeans, “but it’s close enough, yeah?”

_No._ But Zayn nods, looks back at his own doodles, and agrees. “Yeah.”

(He’d come into work earlier than usual last night, because his bedroom was suffocating and he didn’t dare try working on his bruised boy in the alley and he really _didn’t_ feel like talking to Liam or Niall. He went in through the back, got a nasty look from the cook, and decided to make himself useful out front instead. He wiped down the bar a couple times, checked Niall’s inventory (because he wasn’t exactly the most careful person and he tended to miss things), moved some chairs around. He organized the storage closet (kind of, anyway. He picked a few things off the floor and shoved them onto the overflowing shelves; he then back out slowly, before everything fell off again) and wiped at the front window until it was sparkling (or he thought it might be from the right angle, anyway). 

When he checked his watch, he found he’d only wasted twenty minutes. His shift wouldn’t start for another forty. Niall probably wouldn’t show up for another thirty-five.

So he did the very last thing he wanted to do: went into the bathroom. 

He’d planned on refilling the soap or wiping off the mirrors or the sink, but when he opened the door the light was on, the sink running.)

He had been drawing bizarre, cartoonish faces onto the ground in front of him, but he switches gears and begins drawing a compass to match Louis’ “ship”. Louis seems very focused on adding detail to his scribbled ship, and isn’t paying much attention to Zayn, which bothers him for some reason. He thinks it must be because he hasn’t fully gotten over Niall forgetting him (twice) on his graduation day, and hasn’t been getting along with him as smoothly as he usually does. He thinks it’s just because he’s feeling lonely and wants someone to acknowledge him. He doesn’t usually worry about how much attention he’s getting, but he says, 

“Louis, look at this,” and pulls his chalk off the ground so his compass is visible. 

Louis takes his eyes off his ship and slides them over, looks at Zayn’s compass for just long enough to stiffen up, and mumbles, “Looks like shit.”

He’s been in a shit mood all day. Zayn can’t bring himself to be that surprised.

(Louis was in front of the mirror, gingerly dabbing something onto his face. It took his a few seconds of staring, but Zayn had figured out what it was. His sisters had tubes of it in their room, scattered around the house. Cheap, drugstore brands. They’d go through them in a week if they had a bad breakout, ask Zayn to pick up a new, tiny, too expensive concealer on his way home from wherever he’d been.

He’d found himself wondering if there weren’t better ways to handle breakouts as he’d watched Louis, too lost in his own world to notice Zayn in the doorway. He’d wondered stupid shit, like what brand Louis was using and what the shade was called, shit his sisters would probably ask, as he processed what he was seeing.

Louis’ bruises were back, yellow and green in some places, dark purple and red in other places, around his eyes and on his cheeks, spreading up near his temples and by his chin. His lip was busted, swollen.   
Zayn hadn’t been able to move. He’d thought of his painting on the wall, and how he didn’t think anything could make him feel sicker than it did. How he could only manage to work on it in the dark, when he couldn’t tell what he was doing. He’d thought about flicking the lights off and shutting the door and leaving the pain on Louis’ face in the dark where it belonged, where it couldn’t creep up on him.

He’d been holding his breath but he could only do that for so long. He let out his breath in a sharp huff that banged around his chest and throat on its way out, and Louis’ eyes had shot up. They’d met Zayn’s in the mirror, red and watery.)

Louis turns away from him again. He starts rolling the chalk between his hands, eyes at the end of the alley, unfocused. Zayn can help but run his eyes over Louis’ face, looking for just a hint of the disaster that had been there yesterday. Just a fraction of what he’d seen, a bit of proof that he hadn’t imagined it. 

He looks, but doesn’t see anything. He wonders how long Louis’ been doing this. He wonders why he cares. He’s spent all damn day wondering why he cares, and he hasn’t come up with an answer yet. He figures he will, eventually, or he’ll stop caring at all. But for now, he can’t help but worry.

“Hey Lou, do you live by yourself?” He asks, and he tries to make it sound like there’s nothing more to the question than what he said. He’s almost positive he failed, because Louis lets out an irritated huff, and keeps his body turned away when he says,

“You know you went from barely talking to me to trying to get personal? It doesn’t matter who I live with.”

“Uh...right,” Zayn mumbles, drawing anxious Xs on the ground, the biggest one going over his compass, “It’s just...I live with my family? A couple minutes from here? It’s a really short walk from work, couple blocks, straight shoot...my mom has this really sad flower garden in the front. It’s ugly and kinda dead but you can’t miss it.”

_“And?”_

Zayn’s skin starts prickling. He isn’t sure what his point is, but he’s been feeling guilty about what he’d seen. He knows it has nothing to do with him, but the guilt had been pounding in his head for hours anyway.

(He’d seen something like a plea for help in Louis’ eyes, and had reasoned that the crack in the mirror warped everything it reflected. This wasn’t his business and he wasn’t about to make it his business, not then, not when his heart was pounding and he wanted to run and forget about this, about Louis. He’d thought for a split second about college, about how rich kids studying to be therapists and novelists would never look like this. Not with their padded, sheltered lives. He resented people like that, but in that moment, he’d craved their company.

“Does that sink need soap?” He’d asked in a rush, realizing he didn’t have a refill with him even if it did.

Louis’d pressed his hand against the dispenser, and nodded.

Zayn had nodded back, stepped out, and slammed the door. 

Later, he’d asked Niall to refill the soap. He’d hadn’t been able to meet Louis’ eyes for the rest of the night, afraid of what he’d see.)

“I have a box AC in one of my windows. Really big, dinosaur-looking thing. Doesn’t work for shit. Makes a really loud obnoxious sound when it’s on. Like...I don’t know, like it’s begging to die or some shit. Sounds awful. But, um, I have another window on the other wall.”

Zayn feels Louis’ eyes on him then, can picture in his head that they’re narrowed and stormy looking. He thinks that even that is better than the pain he’d seen in them before.

“I never lock it. It’s always open.”

So suddenly Zayn can’t help but jump, Louis slashes a harsh, angry line through his ship and drops his chalk. He stands up and rubs his hands on his jeans. “Okay, so you’re going to get robbed. Sounds like your fucking problem. See you tomorrow.”

Louis throws the words over his shoulder as he’s walking away, and Zayn tries to only hear the annoyance in his voice, but underneath it, beneath the surface and behind a layer of concealer, is a fear Zayn doesn’t understand. He’s felt it come off Louis before, in the dark, when Liam and Niall brush hands or kiss, when someone gets too close to him. 

He reminds himself that Louis isn’t his problem, and just like before, the word _yet_ , like a curse, follows the reminder. He thinks his _yet_ period must be coming to an end, and the realization makes him shiver. 

Goosebumps on his arms despite the summer heat, he finishes scribbling out his compass and Louis’ ship, drops his chalk, and begins his walk home. The house is empty when he gets there, his family probably at a diner spending the money for the electric bill. He lights a cigarette in the house, a rare treat, a passive aggressive ‘fuck you’, and walks into his room. He pats the air conditioner in one window like one might a bitchy cat riding on its ninth life, and then stands in front of the window opposite of it. The bug screen on the other side of the glass had a huge rip in it, had for years, and he’d stopped opening the window after a bird had gotten in. A bit of sweating was a lesser evil than having to try to shoo a bird out without hurting it or himself.  
But now, cigarette caught between his teeth to free his hands, he reaches up and unlocks the window. He pushes it open and swings himself out, reaches the ground easily. He pulls himself back in, to make sure he can. He does that once or twice more, wondering if someone a bit shorter than him could pull themselves in as well. If they had to. Theoretically. 

Once he’s decided that someone smaller than him, theoretically, could get in if they needed to, he shuts the window, leaving it unlocked. He crosses his arms and looks out the window. He thinks the sky is working on a storm. He thinks the humidity inside and outside the room is suffocating. He thinks his _yet_ period is definitely over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you again in approx 2 years

**Author's Note:**

> Twitter: @fkamickie  
> Tumblr: @louistomlinsmol  
> 


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